


Headline news

by Nival_Vixen



Series: Alpha Stiles [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dark, Alternate Universe - No Werewolves, Alternate Universe - Serial Killers, Artist Derek Hale, Blood and Gore, Complete, Dark Derek, Dark Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Dark Stiles, FBI Agent Stiles Stilinski, Fluff and Gore, Graphic Description, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Mild Gore, Morally Ambiguous Stiles Stilinski, Murder Husbands, Serial Killer Derek Hale, Serial Killer Stiles Stilinski, Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-21
Updated: 2017-07-21
Packaged: 2018-12-05 01:08:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11567151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nival_Vixen/pseuds/Nival_Vixen
Summary: Stiles receives an anniversary present from Derek.





	1. Proposal

**Author's Note:**

> Sequel to Alpha - set three years later.
> 
> It's been a bad week & this is cheaper than therapy.

Stiles opened the front door and closed it softly, locking the door behind him. He set his bag on the hallway bench, then looked down at his feet blearily. After a full three weeks away from home working his ass off on a case, a red-eye flight that had been delayed by two hours, and the world's worst (and most expensive) cabbie the town had to offer, Stiles honestly didn't think he could physically bring himself to bend down to take off his shoes. He awkwardly toed them off instead, shoving his socks down shortly thereafter, groaning softly in relief when his swollen feet were free of their confines. He was exhausted and wanted nothing more than to go upstairs to his comfortable bed and sleep with his head on his own pillow again.

 

Stiles reached the bottom of the stairs when he heard a noise. He went alert instantly, his hand going to the gun he kept in his shoulder holster. He had planned on putting it in the safe upstairs, but now a hundred scenarios were flying through his mind about intruders, breaking and entering, and Stiles was glad he hadn't gone upstairs already. He took the gun out of its holster and listened carefully.

 

 _There it was again!_ The noise was muffled, but in the quiet hours of the night - _or was it morning now?_ \- it sounded much louder. Stiles kept his finger parallel to the trigger, not wanting to injure himself or anyone else by accident. If he was going to shoot someone and go through the paperwork equivalent of Hell itself, he had better have a damn good reason.

 

Now that Stiles was listening more carefully, more intently, he could hear the noise again. The sound was still muffled, but he recognised it for what it was: _someone was crying_.

 

Stiles opened the basement door, slowly and carefully, ensuring that the door didn't squeak. He stepped down over the creaky stair, and descended down into the dimly-lit basement, his gun held carefully in front of him. Stiles blinked at the sight that greeted him, surprised enough to lower his gun.

 

A person was in his basement, bound to a table. Stiles saw that they were naked, but for two strips of material: one around their torso, and the other around their mouth.

 

The person stopped crying on seeing him, blue eyes widening, their noises becoming frantic behind their makeshift gag. Stiles knew exactly what those sounds meant: desperation, helplessness, and fear. In an instant, his exhaustion faded away, and his pulse thrummed an eager beat, anticipating the night ahead.

 

"Are you alone?" Stiles asked, receiving a nod in return, the person struggling against their binds and crying out for help again. "Shh, it's okay. It's okay; I'm with the FBI," he said, almost intrigued at the way the person relaxed immediately in response. "I need you to be quiet for me, okay? Don't scream, or else we won't be alone for long, okay?"

 

The person nodded quickly, eagerly, desperately.

 

With a shushing noise, Stiles slowly pulled the gag down, the blue strip of fabric settling under their chin. The man turned his head and spat out the rag that had been stuffed in his mouth.

 

"Thank you! Thank you so much. I thought he was going to kill me," the man rasped, his blue eyes wide.

 

"It's all right now. What's your name?" Stiles asked.

 

"Trent. I... I didn't mean to insult him, you know? It was just... I had a bad day, and I took it out on him when he refused me, and then... I went out for a smoke and then everything went black and I woke up here. He's going to kill me," Trent sobbed, tears rolling down his cheeks, thick and fat.

 

"Don't worry, he won't kill you," Stiles promised, stroking the man's sweaty hair back from his face. "What did he do to your chest?" he asked, looking at the red bandage wrapped around the man's torso.

 

"I... I don't know. _I can't feel anything_ ," he whimpered, then bit back his sobs as they became louder.

 

"Shh, shh, it's okay. It'll be all over soon," Stiles said, then stepped back.

 

"Wait, where are you going? You can't leave me here!" Trent's words were muffled as Stiles clamped his hand over his mouth.

 

"Quiet. Do you want him to come down here again?" Stiles asked pointedly.

 

Trent shook his head, eyes filling with tears.

 

"I'm going to put the gag back on you now, okay? I don't want him to get suspicious when he sees you without it on," Stiles explained, letting his hand slip away from Trent's mouth.

 

"No, let me come with you. _Please_ ," Trent sobbed.

 

Stiles fit the gag over Trent's mouth again, ignoring his soft pleas and heavy tears. He held his gun up again and headed further into the basement, hiding away in the shadows. Footsteps sounded on the floor above them, indicating the return of Trent's captor.

 

Trent bit his tongue, trying hard not to scream out. His captor came downstairs, the steps sounding almost _jovial_ , which was a ridiculous thing to notice when he was bound to a table and unable to feel anything from the neck down. His captor saw him without the duct tape and gag and stopped. Then he smiled, that bright, breathless smile that had made Trent approach him in the first place.

 

Trent's rescuer came out from the shadows of the basement. His gun was holstered, and instead of shooting his captor, kicking or punching him, doing _something_ to detain the man, Stiles **_smiled_** at him instead.

 

"You're home early," Derek said happily.

 

"Caught the red-eye. It was delayed by two hours, but it's still earlier than the flight I'd originally been booked on," Stiles said, taking his holster off and setting it on a nearby hook. "Did you miss me?"

 

Derek nodded, almost shyly, and looked over to Trent strapped to the table. "I got you an anniversary present."

 

"Mm, so I see," Stiles said, walking across the basement to kiss Derek firmly.

 

On the table, Trent made a high whining noise, realising that he wasn't going to be rescued after all.

 

"I missed you too," Stiles said to Derek, both of them ignoring Trent easily enough. "Your anniversary present's in my bag upstairs."

 

"Can I?" Derek asked.

 

"Of course. I'll wait for you," Stiles said.

 

Derek practically ran upstairs, returning a moment later with a wrapped gift. Trent was crying again, harder than before, his chest heaving with each breath he struggled to take. Stiles ignored him and unbuttoned his shirt, hanging it over the holster a moment later, leaving him clad in an undershirt and pants. He smiled as he watched Derek carefully unwrap his gift, as though the contents were precious and fragile.

 

"Painting knives. They're just what I needed. Thank you," Derek said, sounding awed at the thoughtful gift.

 

Stiles smiled, pleased that Derek liked the gift. "I sharpened the edges myself. Want to test them out?"

 

"Yes, please," Derek murmured, kissing Stiles in thanks before setting his new tools next to Trent carefully. "You first, Alpha," he said.

 

"He said he insulted you; what did he say?" Stiles asked curiously, looking down at the whimpering man.

 

"He referred to the size of my penis, insinuated I couldn't get it up, and then was very rude regarding the body size of a person who had more success talking to me than he did."

 

Trent whimpered again, tears leaking from his eyes.

 

Stiles hummed to himself thoughtfully as he looked between the man and Derek; Stiles knew that the man's insults towards Derek weren't what had spurred him to do this, but rather the insult to the stranger. Derek hated bullies. Heading over to the wall where their tools were hanging, Stiles decided on his favoured tool this month: a vice clamp. "I think I'll start with his dick."

 

Derek grinned and behind his gag, Trent tried to scream.

 

Three hours later, there was very little of Trent's body that wasn't bruised, broken, or bloodied in some way. He had passed out four times from the pain. Derek had enjoyed using his new paint knives to design patterns along Trent's skin, testing the difference between taut and tense, and slack and limp. He contemplated using one of the swirling patterns for his next gallery exhibition, so Derek drew the design until it was _perfect_. By the time he achieved such perfection, Trent had lost his voice, hoarse from screaming and sobbing.

 

Finally, the last piece was left: the strip of red fabric around Trent's torso. Stiles pulled the fabric off, his eyes narrowing as he tried to guess what his gift was when he saw the bloodied line across Trent's torso, the wound closed with surgical staples. Derek waited in anticipation, watching as Stiles used the pliers to pull out the staples one by one. Trent was wheezing by this point, his chest falling and rising rapidly with each breath. Stiles carefully peeled the two flaps of skin back, as carefully as Derek had unwrapped his own gift earlier. In the sternoclavicular joint between each clavicle bone, there lay a silver ring.

 

Stiles' eyes widened at the sight and he turned to face Derek.

 

"I can't imagine my life without you, and I want to spend the rest of our lives together. Stiles, will you marry me?" Derek asked.

 

"Of course I will," Stiles replied, kissing Derek firmly.

 

Derek grinned against his lips, hands holding Stiles close as Stiles cupped Derek's jaw. With the blood that covered their hands and bodies, it was a different kind of mess than their first messy kiss.

 

...

 

 **Beacon Hills Daily:** FBI criminal profiler, Stiles Stilinski, son of local Sheriff John Stilinski and the late Claudia Stilinski, is to be married to local artist, Derek Hale, son of the late Talia and Frank Hale. A July wedding is planned.

 

...

 


	2. Inspiration

Derek felt the stares directed at him, even before he'd made it to the bar itself. He ignored the gazes, eager and hungry and desperate. The gazes increased in their intensity as he leaned over the bar slightly, his tight jeans drawing the attention of most of the bar's inhabitants. He ordered his drink, sat on a stool, and started to sip at the liquid. He wasn't planning on getting drunk; Derek knew that it made him sloppy, and _sloppiness_ was one self quality he loathed nearly more than anything else.

 

It didn't take long for the first person to approach him, even though he was still nursing his drink and facing the bar: a sure sign he wanted to be left alone.

 

"Well, hello there, darlin'. Care for some company?" a sultry voice asked, red lips drawing back to display a white-toothed smile.

 

Derek looked at the woman for a moment, recognising the shade of red lipstick with an ache of familiarity, and then he shook his head. "No, thank you."

 

"Well, you'll call me if you change your mind, won't you?" the woman purred, leaving her phone number and name scrawled on the napkin beside him.

 

Derek didn't bother glancing at the name or number, especially not for the company he knew she had in mind, and used the napkin a few minutes later to mop up the condensation on the bar, courtesy of his drink.

 

A few more minutes passed, maybe more, maybe less, and this time a man approached. Obviously having seen what Derek had done with the napkin, the man assumed that he'd have more luck than the woman did.

 

"Hey, want to get out of here?"

 

"I just got here," Derek replied.

 

"Oh, I know. We can come back... later," the man suggested, looking Derek over and leering.

 

Derek looked at the man's blue eyes, and shook his head. "No, thank you; I'm not interested."

 

The man grit his teeth and glared. "Whatever. Probably wouldn't be able to get your tiny dick up anyway," he sneered over his shoulder as he went back to the other side of the bar.

 

Derek ignored the man's pathetic retort and sipped at his drink again. He savoured the taste, the feel of it in his mouth, the burn of alcohol along his throat. He closed his eyes, hoping the background noise would inspire him.

 

It was the three-year anniversary since his Uncle Peter's death and meeting Stiles face-to-face. The problem was that Derek while knew _what_ he wanted to give Stiles, he couldn't think of _how_ to give it to him. Derek wanted to propose in a way that meant something to them, that was special; it had to be something that they could share together.

 

"Excuse me?" a woman said, apologetic and timid beside him.

 

Derek opened his eyes and looked down at her from his seat. She barely reached his shoulder, but she stood steady and firm, despite the terrified expression on her face.

 

"Don't bother with him, love, he's _not interested_ ," the man he'd rejected sneered. "Unless he can only get it up for the fat ones?" the man leered at them from across the bar.

 

The woman went red and tugged at the hem of her shirt self-consciously. Derek glared at the man with what Stiles had dubbed his _I'm-going-to-kill-you_ expression. The man sneered back at him, though Derek could see he had gone a shade paler and goosebumps broke out across his arms, the hairs standing on end.

 

Derek smiled and turned to the woman beside him. "Ignore him. You wanted to say something?"

 

"My friends... uh, well, that's them over there. It's my friend's hen night and what she says goes, apparently, so I'd like to ask you... are you a model?"

 

Derek blinked at the unexpected question. Her rapid words, breathless with fear and excitement, caused another ache of familiarity to wash over him, different than the one before. "No. I'm an artist."

 

The woman seemed almost disappointed at his response, then she nodded and smiled. "That explains the stains," she said, indicating to the sleeve of his Henley shirt where dark stains and bleached spots littered the end of the fabric.

 

Derek grinned, a heartwarming grin that made her breathless for a full three seconds. "I was hoping no one would notice."

 

"Hey, Henry! Is he a model or not?" one of her friends called out loudly; the bride-to-be if the crown and sash were any indication.

 

She waved at them to shut them up, then looked at Derek again. "Sorry about them. Um... I'll leave you now; you looked like you were thinking about something serious," Henry said with a quick smile.

 

"I'm trying to decide how to propose to my boyfriend," Derek said, realising that if her friend was getting married, then she might have some romantic notion he could borrow or adapt. He didn't notice Henry's expression fall at the word 'boyfriend'. "How did your friend get proposed to?" Derek asked curiously.

 

"Her boyfriend said 'wanna get hitched?' and she said 'yeah'," Henry said, rolling her eyes. "Not exactly the most romantic way to propose. If it was me, I'd want to be proposed to on Valentine's Day. It's cheesy and cliché, but I go for that sort of thing," she said, grinning. "My father proposed to my mother by presenting her with a tin filled with their love letters, and she's had it ever since; she refuses to throw it out, even though the thing's dented and faded beyond recognition..." she trailed off abruptly and blushed again. "Uh, sorry, I didn't mean to give you my whole life story."

 

"No, that's a lovely story. It's actually given me an idea, so thank you, Henry," Derek said with another breath-taking smile.

 

Henry smiled back at him, still a little embarrassed, but happy that she'd been able to help.

 

"Henryyyy; the karaoke bar's opening, c'mon!" the bride-to-be called out, waving her over.

 

"Oh, good. I was hoping to escape _before_ the group rendition of _I Will Always Love You_ , but I guess luck's not on my side tonight," Henry said with a laugh. "Nice to meet you; good luck proposing to your boyfriend," she said over her shoulder, heading over to her friends.

 

Derek watched as she left, then looked over to the man across the bar; he was surrounded by a collection of empty glasses and beer bottles, and no longer seemed as interested in getting Derek's attention as he had been earlier. Eventually, the man stood up and headed outside.

 

Derek finished his drink and left as well; he knew _exactly_ how he wanted to propose.

 

...

 

 **Hill Valley Chronicle** : Missing man: Trent Davis. Last seen: April 23rd, 1am, exiting O'Reilly's Pub. Please call Hill Valley Chronicle office if you have any information regarding his whereabouts.

 

...

 


	3. Reception

"How's the murder investigation going?" Stiles asked his father curiously.

 

"Can we just enjoy your wedding _without_ bringing up the gruesome murder case I'm working on?" John asked, sighing.

 

"Sherlock got to talk about murder at his wedding," Stiles replied.

 

"That was John and Mary's wedding, son. Besides, it's a TV show."

 

"Not the point. Would you prefer to talk about it over cake? It's red velvet," Stiles teased, grinning.

 

"No. The conversation can wait until after you get back, surely?" John asked as they continued to dance.

 

"Yeah, I guess you're right. I just worry about you, Pops. You've got an extra worry line between your eyes," he said, frowning.

 

John sighed. "That's because the investigation _isn't_ going anywhere. After two months of terrorising the townsfolk, this Garage Garroter has disappeared off the face of the earth. Every lead's gone cold, the FBI are stumped, and even though the bodies aren't turning up anymore, I'm worrying because it feels like another Alpha case. The last time this sort of thing happened, you were kidnapped."

 

Stiles nodded. "Not a fun day. I met Derek though, so I guess that's kind of good?"

 

As Derek didn't have any family left, he was dancing with Tara from the station, who had her head resting on his chest as they swayed on the dance floor. At Stiles' words, John looked over to them and smiled at the sight. "Silver lining from a very dark cloud, huh?"

 

"Definitely. I'm glad I met Derek, even though the circumstances weren't ideal." There was a moment of silence as the song came to an end. "Hey, do you want my help with this one? I am a profiler for the FBI, y'know," he added with a broad grin.

 

"Believe me, everyone knows you're a profiler for the FBI, honey. Your father's been going on about your career since you stepped foot in the academy," Tara said, standing nearby with Derek. "I think your husband wants you back. I tried so very hard to get him to run away with me, but he refused," she said, sighing and winking at Stiles.

 

"Good try, Tara; he's all mine," he said, pulling Derek close to kiss him.

 

When they pulled away, Derek's ears were pink and he looked to Stiles' father almost guiltily.

 

"You're married now, son, no need to look so worried," John said with a laugh, clasping him on the shoulder. He turned to Stiles and hugged him tightly. "Thanks for the offer, son, but this investigation's a bloody one; I'd prefer not to give you nightmares if I can help it."

 

"Ah, right. Thanks for the warning; I'll give it a miss then," Stiles said, wincing.

 

"Now, enough work talk. You two get back to dancing; you're meant to spend today being happy and in love," John said with a grin, leading Tara off the dance floor.

 

Another song started and more couples started to dance. Stiles smiled at Derek, kissing him again, slow and sweet as they swayed together.

 

"We're leaving after the cake, right?" Stiles asked, a few minutes later.

 

"Yes, please, Mr. Hale-Stilinski," Derek said, voice soft against his ear.

 

"In that case, let's get the food started early; I don't think anyone will mind," Stiles said with a grin, leading Derek over to the wedding party table.

 

...

 

"Ready to leave now, Mr. Hale-Stilinski?" Stiles asked the moment he set his cake fork down.

 

"Yes," Derek replied immediately.

 

"Thank fuck. Let's sneak out while they're all busy doing the chicken dance."

 

Sneaking out through the kitchen, Derek and Stiles were out of the building in less than two minutes. The caterers smiled knowingly at their early departure.

 

The limousine driver was lounging by the vehicle, obviously not expecting them to arrive so soon. Stiles put a finger to his lips and winked as Derek took their bags from the back of the limousine. Derek shouldered the bags and headed around the side of the building without a word.

 

"You've been paid in advance, right?" Stiles asked the driver.

 

"Uh, yeah."

 

"Good. Feel free to tell everyone we left early, or go home early yourself; whatever you prefer," Stiles added, shrugging.

 

The limousine driver blinked at the offer. "All right. You sure you don't want a ride to the airport?"

 

Derek arrived with his Camaro, stopping abruptly beside Stiles.

 

"We're good, thanks."

 

Stiles was seated in the passenger seat with his belt on and the door closed in a matter of seconds. He gave a mocking salute as Derek drove off, the driver standing there and staring after them, gaping.

 

"Did you tell everyone we're honeymooning in Alaska?" Derek asked as they drove through town.

 

"Yeah; I'm pretty sure everyone's traumatised by the whole ' _it's freezing, so it's a good excuse to stay inside and fuck like bunnies_ ' line. They won't be forgetting anytime soon," Stiles said, laughing.

 

"So where are we going, Alpha?" Derek asked.

 

Stiles smiled, leaned over and kissed Derek's cheek. "We're going hunting, Mr. Hale-Stilinski."

 

...

 

 **Toronto Star:** _Death of a thousand cuts: three people killed in seven days!_

 

...

 

The end. Thanks for reading!


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